I Love you, Miss Hooper
by Sherlockianfangirl36
Summary: The title says it all. It's a full-fledged Sherlolly-shipper's interpretation of what happens after The Call. Warning: This fic deals with self-harm. Post TFP.


I'm sure this has been done, a lot the last few days, and by many more talented writers than I, but I wanted to examine the backlash from The Call. Also, I want to try and use this particular fic to raise awareness for self-harm. It really is a struggle, and if someone you know is going through it, try to show them all the love in the world, let them know they are not in any means alone, and most of all, please, please tell them how much you love them! Cutting is the most common from, but that doesn't make other types (burning, purging, hair-pulling, etc.) any less dangerous of difficult to handle. Good luck out there!

Molly Hooper had not been to work in days. She had made a mental list of all the possible sicknesses she could fake, finally settling on a common cold. No sure cure, no way to rush a return to work. Excellent.

She could not go back to that lab. She had gone back the day after The Call, and everything around her only served to remind her of her interlocutor. The microscope he designated to be his, his own personal box of slides, random assortments of lab equipment, and even the mug she always brought him his coffee in.

 **Black, two sugars; I'll be upstairs.**

She pictured him standing there, in the lab, his hair perfectly ruffled, and a polite smile plastered across his face.

She thought that that had hurt her. She thought it had been painful when she had been turned down for a coffee date.

She wished with all her heart that she could go back to that time.

She wished that she could go back to any other time than now; now when she was curled up in her bed beneath extraneous layers of covers, faking a cold so that she could cover up what was really hurting her.

But they don't give days off for broken hearts, do they?

Sherlock knew, he had to have known, that it was true. He had to have known that every thing she had ever done (giving him access to the lab, being faithful to help him with the chemical aspects of his cases, allowing him access to dead bodies, helping him fake his death, and, most importantly, leaving Tom) pointed only to one thing-She loved him. Heart, and soul, and mind.

She left a man that she had loved because she could not live her life out with the knowledge that there was still one man alive that she loved more. Sherlock had to have known this, he had to.

And for some reason, he felt it necessary to exploit this knowledge and break her heart. He had mocked her love for him, he forced her to tell him.

 **I love you.**

She could only dream of taking her words back. She would give all of her little world up if she could only take those three short words back.

Maybe it would not have hurt her nearly as much as it did if she had not made him say it first. He sounded desperate for her to tell him, and she did not know why

An experiment.

 **It's for a case.**

Yes she did know. An experiment. That was all it meant to him.

But she had made him say it, and it gave her the most painful feeling of all. There is one emotion, if it can be called such, that is not given enough credit for the pain it is able to cause the heart. That would be hope.

 **What do you need?**

 **You.**

Hope.

 **Would you...Would you like to solve crimes?**

 **You're not being John, you're being yourself.**

 **...The one that mattered the most...**

There were so many things he had said to her that made her desperately cling to the infinitesimal possibility that somewhere, deep in his sociopathic little heart, he harbored some sort of affection for her.

Then he had called her. Then he had mocked her. Then he had forced her to say she loved him. Oh, he said it, too, but she knew it was not done willingly. She could tell the first time she heard it, the unsteady quality in the deep timbre of his voice. The second time was different. There was more feeling in that confession, but, God knows, Sherlock Holmes could fake any emotion if it was needed to manipulate someone into progressing his own agenda. She knew that better than anyone else.

If he had meant it, truly meant it, Molly doubted he would have gone days without speaking to her about it. She had neither seen nor heard from him (nor John for that matter) for at least three days. Three days that she had spent in her own private hell.

Maybe if she went back to work, it would help. That thought had crossed her mind more than once, until she remembered the way her pain had been exacerbated by the sight of all of Sherlock's private possessions.

She knew going to work would help prevent her from doing something drastic. She frowned as she pulled up her left sleeve and examined the faded pink scars.

Molly was shaken from her thoughts when her doorbell rang. Without giving the slightest thought to whom it could be, she stood up, and walked mechanically to the door.

Molly's eyes widened when she saw who her visitor was. She slammed the door, but heard a grunt from the man on the other side of the door and realized that she had closed it (quite violently) on his foot. She didn't flinch.

"I'm not opening the door, Sherlock!" Why was he here? To make fun of her more? Had he not done enough to her already?

She barely heard his muffled, pleading reply, "Molly, please. Please."

She sighed, turning her back to the door, and leaning against its frame. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and, in a moment of what she considered to be temporary insanity brought on by a severe lack of sleep, she turned around and opened the door.

She didn't say anything. It took her long enough to be able to look him in the eyes. She only raised her eyebrows as if to ask, _**why?**_

"Molly," Sherlock started calmly, "May I please come in?"

She pursed her lips together and made a sweeping motion with her arm, directing him into her small flat. Only now did she realize what a disaster it had become the last few days: tissues littering the floor, wine-staining glasses in her sink, laundry on the furniture...The list continued on for quite some time. She expected Sherlock to make some sarcastic comment on her housekeeping, but instead he just stood rigidly still, with his eyes fixed directly on her.

Only after he had stepped in front of her did she now notice how red his eyes were, too.

"Molly, I came to explain-"

She interrupted him, "There's nothing to explain," she paused to sniffle and wipe her nose with the sleeve of her sweater, "It was just an experiment, right?"

"No!" He said so loud that it made Molly jump. "I...It was so much more than that."

Molly cocked her eyebrows again, skeptical of his evident emotion.

"Molly," he whispered, reaching out to touch her. She pulled away from him.

He swallowed hard, and Molly regretted her decision when she saw his eyes begin to slowly fill with tears. She reached up at her face, only to find that she, too, had been crying.

"Molly," he started again, this time in a firmer tone, "I am going to try to the best of my ability to explain exactly what happened, and if you do not believe me, I cannot blame you," he stopped, his voice breaking.

"Why not?" She prompted.

"Because, I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there."

Sherlock seated himself on the couch beside Molly, and tried for the next hour, as promised, to the best of his ability, to explain exactly what had happened to prompt his phone call. In truth, Molly did find it hard to believe: an evil, psychopathic sister, deadly puzzles, bombs (imaginary or not) in her own flat... But with every word that Sherlock said, she could see his heart breaking just a little bit more.

And then he told her about Victor. Sherlock Holmes had never shared his personal life with Molly Hooper, until now. He started out explaining things in the most ambiguous terms he could muster, but Molly had sat and listened, asking questions when necessary, and remaining silent when needed. She had tried to be the friend she hoped she could always be to him.

Her efforts were rewarded when he started to tell her specific details of what had happened. She saw him cry. She did not know how much it could physically hurt to watch someone cry. She did the only thing she could think of.

She reached her arms across the gap between them and hugged him.

She was still upset. She was still upset that she had to have confessed her love to someone under the conditions Sherlock had described, but she understood now, and that was all she could ask for.

She always suspected him of being manipulative and heartless, but she knew now that only one of those terms applied to him properly.

Sherlock awkwardly broke himself away from her hug.

"Molly, I'm sorry. I-I'm just," she saw his eyes tear up again, "I can't process anything right now."

Molly almost chuckled through her own tears, "It's alright, Sherlock, it's called having feelings."

His nose crinkled up at the word, and Molly couldn't help but smile.

"And I'm sorry if I have hurt yours."

Tears started to flow rapidly from Molly's eyes, and she tried desperately to wipe them all away as fast as they came.

"Molly," he whispered, much the way he had before when she had rejected his touch. He moved inched towards her, and reached out to her again.

"Sherlock," she choked out between sobs, "It's ok, you don't have to."

He grabbed onto her arm, and pulled her to his warm body, nuzzling his head against her neck.

"I don't have to what?" he whispered in her ear.

She pushed back against his chest with her arms, so that she could look into his eyes, "You don't have to pretend that you love me."

He wrinkled his brow as she continued to explain, "I know that you always knew I loved you. There was no way you couldn't know. I just...I just don't want you to have to," her tears started up again, "I-I don't want you to pretend so that you keep from hurting me anymore."

Sherlock let go of Molly, and ran one hand through his head of curls, frustrated. Molly assumed that meant he had taken her advice, and given up even attempting the facade. She was surprised when he reached for her hand, tentatively at first. She didn't know why she could not make herself pull away from his grasp.

"Molly, you have no idea, do you?"

It was Molly's turn to wrinkle her forehead in confusion.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?"

He sighed, "I mean," he gripped her hand firmer, "I simply mean that...you're right," she cocked her head to the side, waiting for him to give a further explanation, "I do have feelings. And I did know that you loved me. I always knew. But Molly, you got one thing very wrong."

"Yes?"

"I'm not pretending," Molly's heart skipped a beat, "You should know, more than anyone, how manipulative I can be, but trust me on this, Molly Hooper, I am not pretending that I love you," Sherlock looked down at their hands, "I have always tried to stay away from feelings, and I suppose I know why now. I know exactly where it all started. I wish I didn't, but I do," he paused, "All that mattered to me was my work, and I could tell from the second I met you, Miss Hooper," a chill ran down her spine when he called her that, "that you loved me. I know I was cruel; I know exactly how heartless I was. It was all calculated; I did not want you to love me."

Molly could barely breathe, "Why not?"

"Because," he swallowed, "Never have I been incapable of feelings; you were right. I was afraid, that if I let myself, I would feel too much. I feel too much now. But almost losing you, Molly, was more than I could take. I could not let Eurus take you away from me. Molly Hooper, you make me _feel_ things." With his free hand, he gently pushed back a strand of her hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"Then say it," Molly barely managed to squeak out.

"What?"

"You know what."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "Well..." he paused, once again gathering Molly into his arms, so that his mouth gently caressed her ear, "Molly Hooper, I love you."

Molly gripped tightly onto Sherlock's coat. With her eyes closed, and her face pressed into his thick hair, she whispered, "And I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

They stayed huddled together on Molly's couch for what seemed like forever, but wound up feeling too short for either one. By the time they separated, it was already growing dark outside, and Sherlock could tell that Molly was fighting to stifle a yawn.

"I will leave you to get some sleep now, Miss Hooper," Sherlock had continued to call her that for the rest of the night, noting with relish the jolt of pleasure it gave Molly.

"No!" She blushed at her overly enthusiastic denial, "I-I mean, you can stay with me."

Sherlock playfully cocked one of his eyebrows, "Oh?"

The shade of red on Molly's face deepened, "No, no! I just meant, um...you can keep me company?"

"Absolutely, Miss Hooper."

Within the next few minutes, Sherlock was curled up beside Molly on her generous pile of blankets on her bed, watching TV. She could tell from the grimace he made, that it was not his favorite past-time, so she clicked it off.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"There's something-There is something you need to know."

Molly could feel her heart beating faster in her chest, "What is it?"

He reached out and stroked her left arm, "I know."

Molly's eyes widened, "How long?"

Sherlock replied, "Since the first time I met you. You wore short sleeves; the scars are faint, but of course _I_ could see them. You generally wear long sleeves, but on the occasions when you have managed to go a few weeks without harming yourself, you have been known to wear short sleeves with a minimum amount of concealant on your forearms."

She tried to ignore the way he emphasized his observations skills, "Yes, well, um...I'm sorry. If the scars bother you..." She blushed.

Sherlock smiled sweetly, "Miss Hooper," he raised her arm, and gingerly rolled up the sleeve, watching to make sure she approved, "I think your scars make you absolutely gorgeous," he moved her arm up to his mouth, kissing each exposed scar in turn. Molly felt her whole body flood with pleasure.

She tangled her right hand into his hair and leaned in to kiss him. He returned the gesture, unsure at first, but learning second-by-second what Molly enjoyed. She pulled away smiling and he gently stroked her cheek.

"You are really more capable of emotion than people think," she muttered.

He raised a finger to her lips, "Don't you go letting on now."

No one had ever called her scars beautiful. No one.

"Molly," Sherlock started, shifting Molly's position so that her back was to his chest, "I never wanted to hurt you. I think you know that now, but... I'm Sherlock Holmes. If we are going to be together," Molly's mind raced with thousands of possibilities, "Then I am going to disappoint you. I am going to hurt you. So I need you to promise me now, you cannot hurt yourself."

Tears rolled down Molly's cheeks. Cutting herself over the years, people who found out often kept their distance, called her a freak, stared at her like she was diseased...No one had ever done or said something like this to her.

"I promise," she gulped back a sob, "I promise that I will try. I can't promise you I can stop immediately, or that I won't have bad days, but I promise you that I will try. For you."

"I will expect payment for keeping you company tonight in the form of whatever cutting instruments you currently us. Most self-harmers have a box of 'treasures.'"

He and Molly both knew she could find other ways to hurt herself, but giving up something as important as that was symbolic of her wishing to stop.

"Sherlock...?" She asked, tentatively, "Why? Why are you doing all of this for me now, if you noticed before?"

"Why Miss Hooper," he said, "I thought I made it clear before," he pressed his lips against her ear, "I love you."

Neither one of them was perfect, and neither one was whole. Each one had their own emotional struggles. But, Molly hoped, maybe they could work on making each other better.

She never slept more soundly in her life.


End file.
